7.02 p.m.
Where was he, she wondered? The thought that entered her mind that moment caused her to shift position in her bed. It felt uncomfortable and she felt awkward. Maybe he did not love her anymore. Maybe she deserved it. Maybe he was right to leave her; maybe she was too much trouble. Maybe, just maybe, she was going mad, she thought as she slowly reached for the glass of water that sat on the bedside cabinet. Her hand was unsteady. She found the glass heavy. She spilt some of its contents onto the bed sheets. She was far too deep in thought to care as she sipped the water, the glass clasped in her hands in a childlike fashion. Her eyes peered over the rim as she studied her surroundings. She often found the whiteness blinding; it was all too clinical for her. The cleanliness did not portray what happened here, it was a false front. She had them all worked out you see, they made it look clean to cover up the death. She knew all right, and sometimes she felt she was the only one. Her husband didn’t agree. But when did he agree with her? Her thoughts were disrupted when a stranger entered the room and she shrivelled back into her shell, placing the glass unsteadily back on the side. She did not talk; she only stared. She did not want to familiarise herself too much with the surroundings, they seemed to change with every passing day. All that stayed the same was the whiteness, that false whiteness.
Where is he? He always is late. It is typical of him to make a late entrance. There is always a reason though, as there had been for these last two years. When he does eventually arrive he smiles at me in such a false way it makes me uncomfortable, I know that I am just a burden. His face tells me everything. The lines have increased and that comical frown of yesteryear is now a grave indication of his worry. Is it worry for me, or for him? Going by the last two years, probably for him. He does not love me any more that is clear. I still yearn for him to be here though, even if he is so false. False, just like this place but to a lesser degree. It seems I am destined to lose him and my life as well. I don’t need worry and sometimes I just want to be left alone. Don’t cry for me, I can do that myself. I can do that for myself…
9.34 p.m.
He had been waiting there for a good two hours now, and his anxiety showed. He would spend a minute sitting and the next five pacing in the small confines of the consultancy room. He stopped now and then to look at the pictures that adorned the wall. At the present moment his eyes rested on a newspaper clipping titled ‘Caring in the community’. He briefly scanned it and slowly got the gist, that of the successful nature of the local hospital, The Albert general. He felt a bitter pang of irony; his wife was dying upstairs whilst the hospital wallowed in its self-pride. It was only the click of the door that broke his consternation. ‘Mr. Jacques?’ The small man asked, with a hint of trepidation on his voice, just in case this did turn out to be the poor sod he had to talk to. With a nod for an answer the doctor slowly slid into the room, quietly closing the door behind him. ‘Please sit down sir’ he gestured, taking the opposite seat. After he had sat down the doctor made sure that Mr. Jacques had done likewise, he continued his dialogue.
‘I am afraid we have some terrible news and it is with great anguish I have to deliver it to you’. With this the doctor watched him stand up and continue pacing the room.
‘I always feared the worse, just to prepare myself.’ He stammered trying to avert the doctor’s gaze as his face creased into emotional turmoil.
‘I am sorry I am the one to tell you sir. There was nothing we could do. The drugs and the therapy could not stop it. As we feared it has gone to her brain’. With this the doctor looked to his lap, he wished for that proverbial black hole to swallow him up, just to remove him from this highly emotional situation. He was greeted with silence, a long deadly silence. The silence that is awkward but means so much more than any words that could of been said at that time.
‘Can I go see her?’
It’s going to be okay, it has to when you think about it. Just because its gone to her brain doesn’t mean death does it, does it? Why did it have to happen to her, her of all people? I thought I could prepare myself for this, I knew what he was going to say. I damn well knew it. Why am I feeling like this, as though it’s my fault? Maybe if we had caught it earlier, maybe if I had paid more attention to her. These two years that have passed must of meant something. Why couldn’t they have done anything after two years? Now I have to face her. I know the outcome of this night already, as though fate has decided it. Does she know? Does she know this is her last night, her last night to look back, her last night to tell those who she loved just how much she loved them, her last night as a wife, her last night as a person, her last night living? I hope to God she doesn’t.
6.30 a.m.
She had now been asleep for a good nine hours. He had sat by her side for those nine hours, the longest nine hours of his life. She did not move much in her sleep. She lay there peacefully. It was only in her sleep she was free from the pain that wracked her body. The painkillers no longer worked and it was just unconsciousness that brought her relief. Sleep took her away from the harsh reality of life and took her back wistfully to bygone days. Her face remained motionless in sleep and did not portray the happiness inside. Only when awake did the happiness get bent and distorted, a direct affect of her condition. Sleep gave clarity. Sleep produced truth. She found herself enclosed in his arms. They were moving gracefully as a tune laced the air. She found herself looking at him, looking into those eyes. His eyes meant everything; they were the windows to his soul. She knew he found it hard to express his feelings, but his eyes showed all the love she needed to see as they moved with the music, around the floor, never breaking eye contact. He mouthed the words, Elvis. How she dearly loved the dulcet tones of Elvis. ‘Take my hand, take my whole life too, for I can’t help falling in love with you…’ With that he embraced her as they carried on their graceful movement. She told him she loved him, he replied ditto. He always did, he never had told her he loved her. With that thought in mind the dream was shattered as she returned to reality, a reality of constant pain.
There he is looking at me. I take it back. I take it all back. He means so much to me, too much. He is currently clasping my hand. The warmth is welcome, from both his hands and his eyes. I find it hard to keep with him though with my eyes feeling extremely heavy. It is only his touch that makes me stay here with him. It seems a test, a test of our love. I want to endure, I do, but it is so hard, so very hard. I feel tears coming to my eyes in both frustration and sadness. I want him here, inside of me. I want him talking to me, invading and assaulting my senses. Instead he remains quiet, in limbo. ‘I love you’ I say, unsure of whether or not he hears it. My voice seems like a dull groan, an inaudible and incomprehensible dialect. Everything is blurred, a blur of white. His figure is hard to determine. I feel myself panic, is this the moment I lose him? The moment I can no longer see him? It was then I heard it, at that very moment the pain lifted and my body was swept into the past again. The blanks were now being coloured in as the scene swung into motion. There we were again, walking along that path. ‘I love you too’. He had said it; he had finally said it. The scene pleased the senses as the smell of autumn came back. The dewy grass and strong smell of wet leaves lifted the atmosphere. The sun was strong and there was his face, framed in this divine light. I could see clearly now. My eyes started closing again though, they felt heavier this time. A smile was styled on my face though and I was warm inside again. I was prepared for what come next…
6.42 a.m. January 18th
Freeze frame. This is where we leave the scene. This is where we leave the husband grieving over his lost wife. This is the time we see him question himself, question why he left it so late to tell the woman he loved just how much he loved her. The scene rests on the moment he laid himself over his wife. We sit still watching the quiet crying of a man in great pain. The memories he held of her would be with him forever. As the scene gently fades into obscurity and the colour is washed out into a grey nostalgic item a sense of calm quells up inside. The loss of human life means so much more than this sentence would suggest. No words can describe what emotions we have without someway distorting the truth and removing the uniqueness and individuality of the love. That is why I will not end this story with a common and mediocre ending, for it deserves so much more. That is why I will leave it up to you and let you decide an ending that is justified and meaningful to you.
